


Do You Know How It Feels?

by Berserk



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Angst, BAMF Charles, BAMF Erik, Character Death, Child Abuse, Cover Art, Denial of Feelings, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Psychological Torture, Racism, Racist Language, Torture, Violence, developing feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10032401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berserk/pseuds/Berserk
Summary: For too long, Erik had been blind to the pain of others by his own obsessions.Charles had had enough.Now, Charles thinks he is a monster - and he may be –but Erik is the one that broke the monster,the one that abandoned the monster,the one that dreams of him…and can’t stop dreaming of him.





	1. The Coin

**Author's Note:**

> New art has been added to ALL CHAPTERS!  
> Check it out~

 

 

     The coin chimed as it made contact with the floor. After a few moments the cry that had been permeating the walls of the crashed jet turned into a silent scream. As his mouth closed, his face fell. His features became empty – seemingly dead – all but his eyes. They remained wide, agape – wrought with shock and… Moira couldn’t tell what else. Charles stood there, still as the dead, the rest of the world mute to him as he re-lived the moment over and over again – unable to break free from it.

     Something important in his mind had cracked. He was trapped in that mirrored room, grasping Shaw’s mind in his own, holding him there, keeping him still, and saving Erik from him – a brief moment of elation and triumph followed by the greatest pain he’d ever imagined. Charles felt every bit of it: the cold metal coin breaching his skin, it slowly pushing through his skull, every fiber tearing one slow strand at a time, the pressure at the base of his skull as it forced its way through the back of his head, his skin bursting open once again when the coin had finished its intended course, and then, just the calm trickle of blood flowing down the back of his neck, tickling the hairs on his scalp as it glided smoothly down… down… down…only for it to happen all over again – the coin staring him down a foot away from his face.

 

     Erik, his _friend_ , was blind to it all – blinded by his own obsession, by his own desires, by his own rage – as he utterly destroyed the man who called him friend. Revenge. It was a sickening thing. So now, in that mirrored room, there stood only Erik, still blinded to the pain of others by his own self-righteousness and by that _damned helmet_.

 

     Charles was like a ghost as he was moved to the beach – dragged by a concerned Moira to where the action was – to where Erik was. But Charles was not there – not really. He was still in that mirrored room with Erik, reliving that pain again and again. Everything else was a complete blur to him, just background noise to the scene echoing in his mind – to the moment he was trapped in. Eventually it snapped. The scene closed, the curtain fell, and Charles saw Erik in front of him – the man who killed him a hundred times – standing on the sand, facing the slow waves of the beach, arm raised towards the horizon, helmet settled sturdy and tall between his shoulders.

    Charles bounded, tackling him with wrathful force. Erik, taken completely off guard, fell hard to the sand – Charles’ knee digging into Erik’s stomach as he landed on top of him. His helmet was removed by rough hands and, not a second later, those hands were on his neck, choking the life out of him with a strength that Erik didn’t know the young professor was capable of. Charles spat his words at Erik – madness lining his tongue and a voice echoing the words in the metal bender’s mind with a sharp ringing behind them

_“Why, Erik?”_

     The floodgates opened and Charles allowed _it_ to happen, lost to his rage, forgetting that he forbade himself from ever doing _it_ again. He let someone in.

 ***

 


	2. Don't Look

      Charles hated his power. Don’t misunderstand, he was proud to be mutant. Exceptional. Evolved. Different. But life chose to be rather unforgiving at just about every opportunity for Charles Xavier.

     As a boy, Charles never quite understood what he was. Charles had always had some sort of connectedness and familiarity with people since the day he was born. Some subconscious part of his brain could always tell him what kind of a person he was talking to. Any reasonably intelligent person that had the chance to meet the boy could tell he possessed a sharp wit and a knack for reading people. His mother, however, exercised caution and a fair amount of distance from him. She always knew it was something else. That _he_ was something else. She had known since the day Charles’ twin died in the womb with him, causing her miscarriage.

“ _He isn’t normal”_.

 

     The first time his power surfaced, his father was long since dead, his mother was either drunk or away (in all probability – both), Cain, his stepbrother, was most likely chumming it up with school friends who took equal joy in making the weak suffer (or perhaps bandaging his raw knuckles from the last time he had beaten Charles into the dirt), and Kurt, the stepfather, was off on another “business trip” managing the Xavier funds and acting every part the "respectable husband" by taking the burden of the Xavier fortune out of the hands of an incompetent, dependent, alcoholic wife.

 

     So there Charles was, laying alone on the floor, curled up into a ball on his side, his tiny hands gripping and tearing at his hair, his little toes bending and scraping into the floorboards, every muscle in his figure tensing, his body trying to push away physically what his brain couldn’t push away mentally.

     Weather he was making any noise or not – he couldn’t say. All he could hear was the shrill screech of his own mind. Although some sort of noise or commotion must have been made because eventually, the door to the room creaked open and a worn-out, familiar Mary-Jane shoe peeked through the crack. And at that moment Charles was no longer in his dark mahogany-lined room.

***

     He was surrounded by dilapidated clay walls – cement patching holes and obvious cracks in the construction. There was blood everywhere. It seeped into his eyes and stained his vision red and blurry when they finally opened.

“¡Es una niña!" he heard.

      Charles didn't speak Spanish, yet somehow, he could understand. Cries of excitement surrounded him. Elderly, large breasted women seemed to be wherever he turned his head. There was the sound of a bustling, busy street just beyond the square-shaped hole of a window in the far right corner of the room. He felt himself being handed to a sweat drenched, exhausted looking woman lying in a bed with dark curls matted to her forehead.

“She is beautiful” the woman said breathlessly. “Your name is Rosa” she whispered to Charles, “My beautiful little girl. My little linda”.

_Curiosity, wonder, hunger, pain, too bright, too cold, too loud._

     Days had gone by, weeks gone by, years gone by, arguments had, adventures made, experiences lived, lessons learned, and friends made in the busy dirt streets of Guadalajara. Rosa was a name well known by the townsfolk as the rambunctious and clever daughter of Valeria, the wife of a corn farmer. Charles enjoyed running through the streets with friends, wreaking havoc on unsuspecting adults. He would always stop in front of store displays to see the beautiful dresses made of vibrantly colored cloth, getting lost in the dazzling swells of fabric.

_Joy, wonder, excitement, passion, interest, eagerness, exhilaration._

     One day, Mother, with her overwhelmingly fast-paced Pero Rican accent, looked into Charles’ brown eyes and said “My little linda is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She will grow up to be an excellent wife someday”. Charles swelled with pride but also uncertainty. Charles didn’t want to belong to any of the boys around town. He was smarter and far more driven than any of them and had dreams of his own.

_Disappointment, concern, hesitation, anxiety._

     As Charles grew, life changed. (Experiencing blood coming out of his body – for one – was not expected, and certainly not pleasing. And boy, did the cramps hurt like hell! Don’t even get him started.) There was less playing and more housework. His mother taught him to cook and clean, sew and mend, and look after his younger siblings.

“I want to make dresses,” he would often say to anyone with an ear to listen “one day I will design clothes for kings and queens”.

“Rosa”, they told him “get your head out of the clouds and find yourself a man to take care of you”.

_Contrary, stubborn, tenacious, determined._

 

     Despite the disapproval of his family and several proposals that men had made to the illustrious Rosa, he decided to start working as a seamstress in the textile factory on the other side of the neighborhood.

     The day his boss raped him, he wanted to die. There was no pleasure. Just pain. So much pain. Profanities were spat at him – unable to move, unable to fight back, he felt utterly powerless, used, and thrown out like garbage.

     His family’s shame was worse. His friends distanced themselves from him in distain, whispering behind his back. The neighborhood seemed to adopt a new slogan: “You don’t want to end up like Rosa”. His father’s chastisements and harsh back of the hand came on the bad days. “You stupid girl” he’d repeat to Charles whenever he felt his daughter needed to be reminded – whenever his daughter didn’t know her place. As the man of the house, he wouldn’t leave that to chance again. And then there was his mother’s utter disappointment in him, the complete disenchantment in her eyes that once looked at him as her pride and joy.

 

     The pregnancy was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. It lasted so long. Too long. But when the day came that he went into labor, he realized that the pain from before was barely a four in comparison.

     The boy. ‘ _My boy’._ Despite everything, the child was worth it. When Charles looked into his son’s eyes, he felt true love. ‘ _This boy is my everything’_ he decided. He knew he would make a better life for his child. The boy would not be known as Rosa’s mistake. Charles would take him away from here.

 

     The journey across the border was harsh, the Coyotes unkind, and the entire ordeal unfair. The Coyotes never planned on taking their passengers all the way across. Instead they took them half way and dumped them into the dry desert, robbing them of their food, supplies, and savings. The other victims who were dumped along with Charles and his son took one look at the young mother and walked away, deserting them. They knew that a woman and her infant would be too much of a burden to travel with, so for their own sakes, they left Charles and his infant son to fend for themselves.

 

     The small bundle in his arms had gone cold long ago – how long: he didn’t know. It was soft. Stiff but soft. It was his everything.

“My boy… my everything” he chanted over and over again – a mantra to a purpose he had long lost but couldn’t let his mind acknowledge as he continued walking.

A fence.

A hole.

He kept walking.

People around him buzzing in their own busy lives.

No one approached him.

No one cared.

He kept walking… until he couldn’t.

His legs just wouldn’t work anymore.

     He collapsed abruptly in the street, the rough asphalt angrily biting into his hip as he strained to keep his cold bundle off the floor, safe in his arms and tight to his chest. The only thing that kept him awake was the uncomfortable trickle of blood gliding down his calf from the scrape along his right leg.

     Cars screeched to their halts. Horns were punched incessantly. People yelled out viciously.

“Get out of the way!”

“You’re blocking the road! Hey! You eh-speek-o some en-glaish?”

“What’s this spic doing?”

“If this bitch makes me late to work, I swear to God – “

     Charles heard a car door close. Someone was walking toward him. He curled in on himself, huddling over his boy, shielding him with his shins, shoulders, neck, head – anything that he had – all that he had. All that he had to give.

     As he peered out of the corner of his eye, Charles drew his sight to the figure approaching him. It was familiar – familiar but also not. Crouching down beside him with panicked, quick movements was a small, unassuming looking man with short blond hair and circular glasses shielding his eyes. He was moving Charles, checking his limbs, trying to say something to him, and when the man hovered over his face, Charles could finally see his eyes. They were kind eyes. They were the same eyes as his son’s, shining a deeper blue than the sky. Charles pushed his bundle towards the man and his vision blurred to grey.

 

     When Charles woke, surrounded by white walls and soft sheets, he didn’t move. He didn’t care.

He knew.

Everything was gone.

 

     The man was there every day. The man was kind. He introduced himself as Brian Xavier.

 

 

     The Xavier household was large. Too large. Too empty. Doctor Xavier’s wife, Sharon, was outwardly polite and kind in her greeting.

“Rosa is a beautiful name” she remarked, but again, that too seemed empty. Would everything always be empty from now on?

_What is left if my everything is gone?_

     It was at that thought – at that moment – that Charles’ eyes caught blue and stayed there – caught in a trance. It was a boy – he couldn’t have been more than two – sitting on the floor, pale skin and pink cheeks and eyes a deeper blue than the sky. Eyes that seemed to peer into his soul. Eyes that knew him. Eyes that filled Charles once again with love. Eyes that, part of him already knew as well.

     “Ah, and this…” Dr. Xavier said, walking toward the boy “is little Charles.” He bent down and picked the boy up. “Charles, say hello to Rosa...” “Rosa… if it’s not too much of a burden, would you also mind keeping an eye on this little one from time to time?”

     Charles felt himself  reluctantly draw his eyes away from the boy’s to look at his new employer who’s gaze held an all-knowing sentiment and who’s soft smile illustrated a saintly care.

     And then, Charles cried. Finally. He cried for everything he lost… and for everything he found. He looked back at the small child. _Everything is not lost._

 

 

_My boy_

 

_Clever boy_

 

  
_He’s growing up so fast. Just look at him-- …_

 

 

_Why him? Of all the men in the world – why take someone as good as Dr. Xavier?! Charles is just a boy! He can’t-- …_

 

 

_My GOD woman! You could at least try to act like a mother for once! Pick up your self-respect, put down the bottle, and-- …_

 

 

_Puta Madre! It’s hard enough cleaning this never ending chasm of a house without having to clean up after the boys’ roughhousing as well! This is the third broken vase this week! That Cain boy is rubbing off on Charles with his destructive nonsense. Well, at least Charles has someone his age to play with at home... Why is there blood at the bottom of the stairs!? …_

 

 

_Dear God, tonight I pray to you to protect that boy. I will do anything – I will give anything – just help him. He never cries, he never complains, he never asks for help. I don’t know what I can do… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Tell me what I can do… He is my ev--…_

 

 

     “Charles? What’s wrong?” the door felt dense, thick, and cold against flesh as the knock echoed out into the long, empty hallway. “Charles?” The door knob, stiff at first due to old age - _I’ll grease the handle later -_ loosened and gave way as it twisted clockwise. The door creaked open slowly. It took a moment to process the sight inside of that room. ‘ _What is_ \- _Oh God, NO!’_

     So there little Charles was, laying alone on the floor, curled up into a ball on his side, his tiny hands gripping and tearing at his hair, his little toes bending and scraping into the floorboards, blood dripping from their nailbeds, from his scalp, from his mouth, from his ears.

     “Charles!!!”   _My boy!_

     Rushing franticly, the worn-out Mary-Jane shoe thud on the wooden floor with its first step into the open crack of the room. “CHAR--“

_It hurts_

“L--“

Everything was melting

_It hurts_

“es…”

_Charles, I can help. Please, let me help you. You don't have to go through this by yourself. Charles, share with me. I'm here to help you, you know that. You don’t have to be alone.’_

Everything blurred out.

 

***

     Charles was back in his dark mahogany-lined room. Everything hurt. His mind was still screeching – reaching for something. He screamed at his mind to stop. To stop. To go away. To _please_ stop. When he tilted his chin upwards, the image in his line of sight froze him. Froze _it_. Froze everything. Rosa. Her apron laces were sprawled on the floor beneath her. Her body was as still as death, her eyes agape and glossy.

     Charles had known Rosa all his life up to that point. He always felt her love and empathy and could sense that she had a long-suffered past. But now he knew her past, felt her past, _lived_ her past. The woman was nothing short of a saint. And now he stared out at her motionless body. He couldn’t _feel_ anything from her. He had killed the person who loved him most in the world. He killed his mother. And she _was_ his mother. Not by something as accidental as blood... but by choice. Because she _chose_ to care. Because she was a good person. And Charles had killed her.

     Her body remained, but her mind was dead. Forever lost from this world. Charles powers had never gone that far out of control again. He would shove them deep down – shove them far away. He would rather allow his own mind to take the toll than hurt anyone else ever again. Those first few months after his powers had awakened were so loud. _Too loud_. So many voices echoing in his head. They screamed, they whispered, they snarled, they _lived_. They were alive and they hurt. Every day there were more and more of them, the range of his powers expanding miles at a time. It took so long to be able to quiet them – to be able to push them down.

    And Charles, a boy of only ten years, now having experienced and lived thirty-odd years of another’s life, was hardly what you could consider a child. He understood the things he heard with blinding clarity. But worst of all, he knew the enormity of what he did that day in his dark mahogany room from the moment it happened. And he always carried that weight on his small shoulders.

     He was truly alone. Not only was there no one left in his life that bothered to care, there was the knowledge that – in the whole world – he was alone. A freak. A monster. He was just like the monster in one of his story books that ate the souls of the innocent. He wanted – no – _needed_ to know what he was. He started reading and never stopped, drowning his mind in knowledge.

 

     Everything changed when he met Raven. Where he once thought no one else in the world could understand this loneliness, he now saw someone with similar cards dealt by fate. That day, as she stood in his kitchen, her memories flooded into him, but what rung out at every turn of her mind was the same thought, ‘ _I’m a monster_ ’.

    But she _wasn’t_. She was beautiful – inside and out. And she was like him – different. So then, maybe he was not a monster after all. That day he decided that she was his responsibility. He would care for her, he would love her like Rosa loved him, and he would protect her. And that he did. He protected her and shielded her from the hurt and the pain and the cruelty of the world. He helped to hide her away, hide her specialness away from the world like he learned to do for himself not long ago. And as the years went by, he continued to learn and study, and eventually discovered what they were. Mutants.

     He and Raven… they were human – just mutated, just a little bit different, just like people with heterochromia or people who don't develop wisdom teeth. He finally had someone else like him, someone who he knew would always accept him because they were the _same._

 

     That naivety was short lived. They were _not_ the same. The day she told him to “stay out of my head!”, Charles realized that even by another mutant – his own kind – it would be impossible for anyone to be able to accept him.

    He would always be feared.

    He would always be a _monster_.

 

_Maybe I was designed to be alone._

 


	3. The Wrong Pain

 

     The grip around his neck relaxed slightly but the eyes glaring at him – _through him_ – did not waver. Erik braced himself, ready to experience some sort of sting or pain from Charles’ powers, but he didn't. There was no pain. There was just a story playing out in front of him of a young boy with shockingly blue eyes.

“ _Charles?”_

     The boy couldn't hear Erik. All Erik could do was stand back and watch, pick up on the emotions and thoughts radiating off of this boy like a loud speaker, and sit idly by as the scenes unfolded. A production, he quickly realized,  _was_ of Charles. Or at least, cut scenes of a few of his memories.

     Erik saw the _mansion_ , the servants, the décor, the possessions, the _mother_ – _“Good for you Charles”_ he remarked bitterly.

_“Are you going to show me everything that I didn’t have compared to your pampered youth? Make me revisit my mother’s death perhaps?”_

     There was no answer.

     He turned his attention to the telepath's mother. Sharon Xavier. She wasn't all that interesting. Blonde hair, posh demeanor - _as expected_ _-_ the woman was rather dull, to be honest. But then, Erik saw her eyes. They were the same blue as Charles’, the same shape as Charles’, and yet everything about them was different. This woman’s eyes looked at her son... _wrong._  The manner of it seemed out of place for those familiar deep blues and entirely out of place for a mother. There was no love in those eyes – not for Charles. All he could see there was disgust.

     What followed that _delightful_ image was a warm introduction to the rest of Charles’ bright, happy family: the step father, the step brother, the beatings, the thievery, the alcohol, and the hollowness of those halls. For all that Charles had, it was completely empty.  

     The child never seemed to mind though, at least not outwardly. He didn’t pout, didn’t complain, didn’t tattle, and not once did he even raise his voice – always speaking with a calm tenor. The boy never cried. He would just smile to the rest of the world, seemingly at ease, but his mind was never quiet.  The emotions Erik could feel emanating off his tiny form were deep – far too profound for a child.

     Erik was ill at ease. He was witnessing what seemed to be Charles’ soul bared entirely naked. This was private, this was not meant for anyone and Erik’s presence was violating that privacy.

 _"Well, he gave no thought to my privacy any of the times he looked into my mind”_ Erik reminded himself.

     This was Charles at his most exposed. This was secret. This was a part of himself that Charles chose to share with no one; his layers of camouflage, misdirection, charms, and etiquettes composed the Charles that the world knew – that Erik knew.  

 

     A foreign sounding cry brought Erik’s attention to a room with dark-stained wooden walls. He looked down.

     There Charles was, laying alone on the floor, curled up into a ball on his side, his tiny hands gripping and tearing at his hair, his little toes bending and scraping into the floorboards, blood dripping from their nailbeds, from his scalp, from his mouth, from his ears – every muscle in his figure tensing, his body trying to push away physically what his brain couldn’t push away mentally.

 

     And then, Charles’ mind was inside another’s – a woman’s. And Charles was living her life – experiencing her days – feeling all her happy little moods. Erik could virtually _see_ Rosa’s emotions seeping from Charles like a cloud of haze. Erik fanned a particularly annoying sparkly-pink fart-cloud-of-happy away from his face, his irritation rising. Charles was getting _way_ too excited over the dress in that shop’s window. The metal-bender held a stern expression while cheerful little emotions wafted from Charles’ happy form, floating past Erik's face – jaw clenched in frustration. These "feelings" may as well have been glittery singing fairies dancing around him with how much annoyance Erik was beginning to radiate.

‘ _This is taking an eternity.’_

     Erik’s face betrayed a small twitch of a grin as he watched Charles squeal with joy over the Quinceanera dress Rosa’s family surprised him with.

 _“_ _I had no idea you had such a thing for dresses Charles”,_ he mocked, a toothy grin eating up half his face.

      Erik watched. He didn't know how long he’d been watching; he didn't know how long he’d been here – it could have been moments, it could have been days, but Charles was growing and Rosa’s life was changing. Always ever on the sidelines, Erik watched bits and pieces of this woman’s lifespan like a highlight reel as Charles lived the life of this woman. As he was watching the scenes unfold in front of him, Erik couldn't help but remember the conversation he had with Charles just a matter of weeks ago.

 

     Erik and Charles were standing outside the CIA facility. He had been trying to leave the place discreetly with the files on Shaw but Charles just had to interrupt his endeavor. What stood out to him most during that confrontation with Charles was a simple remark the telepath had made. When Erik had asked “What do you know about **_me_**?” Charles had just responded confidently “…Everything”. That one remark kept Erik from leaving, why, he never fully understood himself. There was just some sort of weight behind that word. A weight he hadn't expected from a sheltered young scholar. He had never fully realized what Charles had meant. Not until now.

 

 

     A sudden change in the atmosphere pulled Erik back out of his musings. It was dark out but it only took a moment for his eyes to find his friend. He saw Charles trying to run – but limping – down Rosa’s street, towards Rosa’s home in the quiet of the night – his arm flopping ominously against his side with each stride. When Erik looked closer, he saw the torn skirt, the buttons missing sporadically from Rosa’s blouse, the tears pouring from Charles' eyes, the telltale swelling of fresh bruises on his face, the blood on his gashed lip, the _blood_ falling from the base of his hairline, the _blood_ dried around his nose, the _blood_ \--

…the blood dripping down between his thighs, seeping into the cloth of Rosa’s favorite skirt.

Charles reeks of despair.

 

 

     Erik saw the infant, alive one moment - filling Charles with the greatest joy Rosa had yet to experience _–_ and dead the next. Erik couldn’t feel anything coming from Charles anymore.

He was empty.

 

     The story seemed to come full circle as Erik found himself back in the Xavier estate. Again, he was met with the face of Sharon Xavier, eyes a bit younger and a bit more sober now. When he saw the toddler Charles being put into the arms of Rosa, who was wearing a modest uniform, black Mary-Janes, and a white apron, Erik pieced it all together.

     Erik found himself back in the room with the dark stained wooden walls. The young telepath was staring at an unmoving Rosa, both of them laid out on the cold floor. The boy reached for her, his own small arms trembling from exhaustion. He tried to shake her, to move her, to wake her, but she wouldn't waken. Charles’ small frame dragged itself up next to her, he curled into himself and wrapped his arms around his knees, Rosa’s body surrounding his own. Erik couldn't help but see a strange parallel - the way Rosa’s lifeless form was now cradling a young Charles reminded him of the young Rosa cradling her lifeless infant on that dirty street in that nameless town Dr. Xavier found her in. But perhaps that was just what Charles had intended as well, consciously or not.

     They stayed there – all three of them – for hours, perhaps even days, Erik couldn't tell, the thick red curtains over the window were drawn – shielding out the light and any change in the sky from his view. He just stood there, looking down on the two of them, the harsh, artificial light of the room burning an ache into his temples, the buzzing of the lamp becoming louder and louder. Of the entire time Erik had spent in Charles’ mind, this – he knew – was by far the longest.

     Eventually, someone found the open room and intruded upon the two, and before Erik knew it, servants had flooded the claustrophobic space of the small room. A large man was trying to pick Charles up off the floor but he wouldn't let go of Rosa. Two of them were now pulling Charles off of her, trying to yank the boy’s hands away, ripping his tiny fingers from Rosa’s apron pocket--

 

***

 

     Erik was torn from the spell, winded and panting, fingers gripping the sand beneath him, he stared up at a fully grown Charles, whose face was absolutely seething red.

 


	4. Guilt

 

     "How did-- _You weren’t supposed to see that!_ ” Charles spat.

     Glancing at the sky to his right, toward the shore, Erik realized that barely a second had passed on the beach. The missiles that he had turned back on the human’s boats were still in midair falling toward the surface of the water.

     Charles’ voice interjected his distraction “You were meant to _feel_ **this** _._ ”

      Erik’s gaze jumped back to Charles, his normal steel features warped in panic. Charles’ expression briefly bared uncertainty. He hesitated, but only for a moment before a dark sneer spread across his face, apparently arriving at a decision.

“But taking into consideration your _weak_ mind, I’ll only make you live it **_once_**.” The last word hissed unnervingly through Charles’ teeth.

     And before he could blink, Erik was back in the mirrored room, staring at a helmeted version of himself – eyes cold and soulless. A coin was slowly approaching his forehead. He could hear Charles’ voice saturating his mind

 _“No! Nnnng- DON’T_ **DO** _THIS ERIK! … No, please Erik no…_ **Please** _Erik…” ._

_‘Oh, that’s right… Charles was in here, wasn’t he? With Shaw. So, when I killed Shaw... So, this is- this is what you fel--’_

     That was the last coherent thought that Erik was able to make before the coin reached his skull. The rest was drowned in screams. His own.

     On the beach, the others watched in horror as Erik writhed and shrieked, his body shaking like he was having a fit. His cries turned silent as his eyes rolled back into his head and began foaming at the mouth. And yet, the most frightening thing on that beach was not the rabid movements and sounds coming from Erik, it was Charles, his face porcelain still and smooth – not a hint of emotion laced his expression. There was just a calm, steady gaze taking in all of Erik’s reactions, analyzing them, measuring them.

 


	5. A Broken Vow

 

 

     Several minutes had passed. Enough time for Charles to realize what he’d done. Erik – _his friend_ – laid motionless beneath him. He did it _again_. It was his fault _again._ He took another soul _–_  

**_‘_ _…ate another soul’._ **

 

Why did he lose control?!

 

**‘… _Monster_ ’**

 

He swore never to do it again!

 

**‘ _I will always be a monster’_**

 

They are _fragile_ , they _can’t take the pain! You can't let them in!_

_'I know that! She taught me that! Why did I forget? Why did I do it?'_

 

 

“…Maybe I was designed to be alone” Charles breathed.

 

Erik’s eyes snapped open.


	6. Don't Think About It

 

     Erik’s eyes snapped open-

     -And then immediately avoided Charles’ gaze, looking anywhere but forward. Charles just stared down at him, eyes wide as saucers, unblinking for what felt like minutes.

     Erik summoned the metal helmet back to him and placed it on his head as he sat up, Charles sliding off his chest. Erik kept his gaze decidedly fixed _away_ from Charles. He shouldn't look at him. He can't think about what he’s done. He will not be deterred. Not now. Not after everything _._ He has no time for regret. Now is not the time to lose his resolve. _But what did Charles mean when he said “I’ll only make you live it **once** ”? No!_ The enemy is right there in front of him. _Don’t think about it_. This is the time to make his stand. The humans showed their hand, now it was time to show them his.  

     Erik got to his feet, Charles falling back onto his elbows in the sand, still caught in disbelief, eyes still trained on Erik. Erik reached out for metal. A snarl curled on his lip – the metal he was looking for – the humans' weapons – no longer useful after they made impact with the water's surface. Instead, he changed his attention to the wreckage of the beached submarine. He guided his hand towards the shattered vessel, palm spread wide, as he began bending and melding the metal into his desired form. Dozens of metal rod-shaped pillars now floated in the air, pointing towards the shore.

 

 ***

      Charles finally broke his gaze away from a very **alive** Erik. He took in the landscape that had drastically changed since the last time he was in his right mind. As he stared out to the water, Charles realized that both the American and Soviet boats were now facing their direction, surrounding the coast. Trails of white smoke lined the sky, betraying the direction that their weapons had fired. And the lines all pointed to the beach – to us – the mutants. All of a sudden, Erik thrust his arm forward, sending his rods shooting through the sky toward the boats – toward _all those people_. For the second time today, Charles tackled Erik to the ground, but this time, not in rage, but in complete desperation.

 

 ***

     Charles pulled his way up Erik’s body, once again reaching for the helmet, but this time, Erik knew it was coming.

 _I don’t want to hurt you- … **again** … _He didn't say it out loud – he couldn't.

      He shut down that whole train of thought.

_Don’t think about it._

     He elbowed Charles in the face, knocking him back to the ground. Erik straddled Charles stomach, pinning him underneath. Alex, Sean, Hank, and Raven started running towards the scuffle. Erik launched the boys back by the metal clasps on their suits and then turned to stabilize the metal rods that had begun veering off their course the moment Erik’s back had hit sand.

     Charles kept reaching for the helmet, hands pawing and grabbing at Erik’s face despite the firm grasp Erik had on his collar that kept Charles’ shoulders pinned to the ground.

“Erik, stop! **Please**!”

_No. Don’t say **that** , not again… _

_Don’t think about it._

Erik batted Charles’ arm away, flinging it to the ground, giving him an opening as he punched Charles’ jaw with enough force to drive the side of his face into the sand. Charles cringed - face contorting pitifully - as he groaned out in pain, the sound tearing at Erik's resolve. Erik’s projectiles began to falter and started falling to the sea.

He couldn't look at Charles like that, his kind face wretched in agony... _again._

_Don’t think about it._

     He turned away and got up off of Charles’ stomach. Erik strode several paces away from his friend’s recoiling body as he re-established his control over his metal messengers. Just as they were about to meet their mark, lead collided with the back of his helmet, once again making Erik lose control of his metal onslaught. Erik was all too familiar with the sound of a gun and of a bullet hitting metal. He spun around to its source and faced Moira head on - her bullets aiming with deadly accuracy while he deflected them from their mark until -

     a faint gasp echoed through the air.

 

 ***

     Charles felt a sting in his back. His spine arched up as something shocked him forward. And he was falling. He didn't know why, but he was falling. His stomach hit the firm sand with a thud. And Erik was running toward him – behind him. He felt Erik’s firm grasp on his arm, tugging him back. He didn't understand. Everything was moving too fast. Everything hurt. What was Erik going to do to him now?

‘ _No. No more. Please no more. Just stay away.’_ He projected as loudly as he could, but Erik couldn't hear him. That helmet could hear nothing.

     Erik was doing something to his back. _It hurt_. Charles didn't want to be here. He didn't want to feel this. So instead his mind searched for escape. It wandered towards the elation he could feel emanating from the water. The soldiers. He felt the breath of the captain’s sigh of relief, he felt their tears of joy gliding down his cheek as he watched the metal onslaught fall dead into the ocean, not a single rod meeting its mark.

‘ _I’m coming home to you baby_ ’ a soldier thought. Thousands of other voices like this one shout out to his mind, trying to reach their loved ones.

     He was in absolute euphoria.

     He could feel it.

      Life.

     Until he felt his body being pulled onto someone’s knees. 

A pained grunt was heaved out of him, **“Nn--DAH!-”** the firm legs beneath his back distressing the sting even more.

 **“** **GUH--ha!”** It hurt to breath.

 

 ***

     Erik had run toward Charles as soon as he saw him fall. He had taken the bullet out without a second thought, pulled a limp Charles to his lap, and now Charles was writhing in agony beneath him. _Again._

“I-”

He _can’t._

“Char-”

What was there to say? He heard multiple steps grinding through the sand, making their way towards Charles.

 **“Stay BACK!”** He screamed.

     He looked up to see that the children had frozen in their places. He heard the jingle of metal and dragged his eyes towards the source – a dog tag against a steel ball chain hanging from _her_ neck.

 **“You”** he seethed.

     He conducted the steel, pulling the chain taut against her throat. He could feel her pulse throb through the metal, every pulsation of her life an abhorrence – an _offence_ to the world, to _him._

A pained voice pleaded beneath him “Erik. Stop… _Please_ ”.

  **S _top. SAYING THAT!_ **

_Stop it. No. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it!_

_Look away. Don’t look! **Don’t look at --**_

     He looked down to the friend in his lap, still quivering in pain, trying to breath with obvious difficulty.

 **“WHY?!”** Erik shouted.

     He lost his control of the neckless and Moira fell to the ground, coughing and gagging as she ripped off the chain.

“Why do you trust them?”

_Humans,_

“Why do you help them?”

_me,_

“Why do you protect them?”

_everyone,_

“Why do you believe in them?”

_will hurt you._

“Why do you rely so heavily on **_hope_** Charles?”

“… It’s all I have.” Charles breathed out, his voice so very small, the revelation so very true.

     Tears began welling up and pooling in the sockets of Charles’ eyes.

“...This is what **_hope_** has done to you Charles.”

     Charles’ chin began quivering as he swallowed down a gasp of pain.

 ** _Walk away! Stop looking! -_** Erik’s mind screamed.

 _...This is what **I've** done to you Charles._  

 

_I can’t. I Can’t. I CAN’T._

_No more._

 

     Erik’s face became void. Of everything. Not a twitch of emotion present. Not anymore. He stood and walked away from his friend. He wouldn't look back.

     He gazed out at everyone - everyone but Charles - and called out to them

“If you want to join me, then come. Otherwise, you can stay here and **_hope”._**

     Shaw’s people – including that traitorous little Angel – came to stand at his side. They all joined hands as Erik shared a look with the teleporter. The red man took that as permission and the four of them vanished with a thunderous crack, leaving a trail of black smoke.

 

     They found themselves on an empty street that Erik didn't recognize. And before even a second could pass, Erik was struck with the feeling that he had forgotten something.

 ** _“Moira”_ ** he hissed. She was still breathing. And that was not acceptable.

He grabbed the red devil’s shoulder “Take me back”.

 

     They arrived back on the beach as Moira was lifting Charles onto her lap, calming him through his pain with her voice “--get you to a hospital”.

 The movement forced a scream from Charles, his eyes squinting shut.

**“GUH”**

“Wait, don’t m-”

**“GUAAAAAH!”**

“Charles, don’t move, okay?” Hanks voice sounded incredibly small for his beastly form.

“ **Gah**! ... I won’t… _I cah_ \- actually I c-…”

     Charles’ eyes opened, his gaze darting left and right into the empty space in front of him, unable to look at the friends hovering over him, blind to the presence of Erik standing a few strides behind Moira and Alex.

Charles panted out a breath once, twice, “I _cah_ \- I-” three times, four times, “…I can’t feel my legs” he uttered.

Moira hesitated a moment before her shaky response  “…What?--”

“I can’t _**feel** _ my legs… I can’t feel my legs”.  

 

Erik watched his friend as he slowly began to realize that the life he had was over. Erik didn't react. He couldn't react. He wouldn't think about it. He _can’t be here_.

“We’re leaving” Erik commanded and Azazel complied immediately, teleporting them back to the others. The trail of black smoke disappeared a fraction of a second before Alex looked behind him, searching for the source of the noise.

 


	7. Steel Heart

     They walked. Silently they walked along the dirt road for hours, none of them saying a word, Erik leading the way several meters in front of everyone else. None of them knew what was going on – well, none except Erik and Azazel. So the rest of the group just followed timidly. Erik didn’t seem to have a destination in mind as he marched forward.

     They passed a broken down car – its original color unclear, replaced by a tawny rust – the engine, wheels, and interior stripped – just a rusting steel skeleton, decomposing into the earth, discovering its new purpose as a shelter for bright red Heliconia. Eventually, they even passed a small town of curious onlookers, undoubtedly confused by the foreigners in strange get ups - and possibly also by the man with the red skin – but the four of them just kept on walking. They kept quiet. Something in the atmosphere seemed a bit too heavy to break the silence. When they reached a seemingly abandoned crumbling house, Angel decided to speak.

“I think I need to go to a hospital.”

     The others paused their strides as the leader came to a halt, quietly waiting to see how he would reply. Several moments passed with no response. She continued

“My wing-”

“-You think a _hospital_ can fix your _wing_? Let alone even want to try? If it doesn’t get better on its own, you’re just going to have to learn to live with it. In the future, don’t whine to me about the injury you sustained while _attacking your friends_. You’re not a child anymore; that ended the moment you chose to let Darwin die for you” he seethed. Angel’s mouth shut tight as she averted her eyes in submission. Apparently, Erik was not ready to be interrupted from his silent musings.

“So what are we doing?” the ever-stoic Janos questioned, the unfamiliar voice diverting Erik from his aggravation.

“First thing: we find the telepath.”

The red Russian’s thick accent joined in “You just left one on beach. Crippled, I might add.”

     Erik’s entire body tensed. The silence was back but it was different this time. This time it was deadly. No one dared make a move. After a few seconds of the frightful silence Azazel was thrust against the crumbling stone wall in a red blur, the building cracking behind him.  The buttons of his high-collared shirt hummed in vibration, Erik’s eyes boring into his chest as the buttons began to do the same, Azazel’s torso concaving where the metal buttons dug in. The snapping ribs were audible. One, two, three, four cracks later, Angel drudged up the courage to plead with their manic leader.

“… Erik… no more. You’re gonna kill him… Erik, please!”

  

 ‘ _… No, please Erik no…_ **Please** _Erik…’_

     Why couldn’t he forget? Why wouldn’t Charles get out of his head? Every time… every time he would remember that pleading voice, every time he would see the face of his friend wretched in pain again and again and again. 

     Charles' voice as he begged Erik to stop, Charles' face as Erik beat it into the sand, Charles' pain… shuddering, small shoulders that hunched over a bloodied skirt, tiny bleeding fingers that gripped an apron pocket, fearful blue eyes that stared down a coin, the limp, crying friend that stared up at Erik from his lap, all of it was etched into his mind.

     Everything reminded him of it.

     He lost control of the metal and the red bastard slid down the wall, grasping his chest and falling to his knees as he began gulping down air like a man starved. The devilish man made surprisingly little noise as he began to compose himself.

     Erik waited for the man to stand (after an impressively short amount of time) before clarifying

“ **The woman**. _His_ woman. Frost.”

      Azazel nodded his assent in silence and the rest followed in turn. Good dogs knew to fall in line.

“Azazel. Take us back to one of Shaw’s old bases. I’m sure he’ll no longer have any use of them.”

     The four joined hands and vanished in a cloud of smoke.

 

 

 


	8. A Warm Friend

“Oh. This dream again. Of course it’s this dream. The day before my new job… and of course I have to have _this_ dream. Blinding white florescent light: check, hollow humming of the air conditioning: check, aaaand Dr. Williamson should walk through those doors in 3… 2… 1… there he is. Everything’s exactly where I remember it – Jesus, can this room smell any more like bleach?

Wait.

Who are you?

Little boy… hey you! Hey, kid! Yeah, you in the corner, who are you? What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.”

 

“…you know wh- …ik is?”

 

“What? I can’t hear you. Come over here…”

 

“Do you know… where Erik is?”

 

“Erik? I- … I don’t know anyone named Erik but… kid…

You look terrible. Why are you so scared?”

 

“… Why are _you_ scared?”

 

“Ha! That's gotta be a joke. Why am _I_ scared you ask? You see this metal table I’m strapped to? You see that tray of shiny scalpels and sheers? I know what’s about to happen next. I’ve relived this day a hundred times before and it'll happen a hundred times again.

I had appendicitis. Went into the hospital to get an appendectomy. Only problem was, the anesthesia didn’t work on me. They call it anesthesia awareness. I couldn’t move. All I could do was lay back and watch... God, it hurt so much… And the hospital wouldn’t take responsibility for it at all! They said they weren’t liable for anything that happened. Worst of all, they said I couldn’t _prove_ that I had actually experienced any pain during the surgery…

Fucking destroyed my life.

I can barely sleep, I scared the crap out of my little girl with my bullshit panic attacks, I lost my job, I lost my wife and kid-

... What the hell am I doing telling all this to a child? Look little guy, you’re gonna want to get out of here before- damn it, they’re already coming back. Kid, you should go. You don’t want to see this.”

 

“…”

 

“You need to leave kid.”

 

“…”

 

“Do you not understand what’s gonna happen? …They’re about to _cut_ _into_ me. They’re about to slice me open and carve the appendix out of my body.”

 

“…”

 

“Please kid…

I don’t want a little boy to see me cry…”

 

“… Get off.”

 

“What? Hey! Eh- what are you doing?”

 

“I'm laying down.”

 

“I already told you, I can’t move- damn it kid, quit pushing me! I’m gonna fall off- oof!

Now look what you did!

… What the hell are you doing?”

 

“Laying down.”

 

“What do you mean you’re- wait, what are they… why are they prepping _you_ for surgery?!”

 

“Because that’s what they’re here to do.”

 

“What?”

 

“This is _your_ dream. They are here to perform an appendectomy. It happened. I'm sorry that it happened but there’s no changing that fact. This happened to you and it was unfair but you don’t have to keep on  like this. You can move past it.”

 

“But-“

 

“I don’t mind it.”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t mind it if you see me cry.”

 

“…”

 

“What was your name sir?”

 

“… Benjamin.”

 

“Benjamin. Don’t remember the pain of this day. It didn’t happen to you. It happened to someone else. It happened to me, okay?”

 

“… You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into kid.”

 

“… I’ve had worse.”

 

“… What did you say your name was?”

 

“… I don't... I don't know.”

 


	9. Steel Is Harder Than Ice

 

“I want you to get rid of it. All of it.”

      She looked at him questioningly.

“You’re gonna have to clarify a bit, Sugar” she responded, a condescending lilt weighing on the last word.

“This…”

      The metal bender seemed at a loss for words as the pads of his fingers pressed against his silver helm.

“… _Pain.”_

      He reluctantly took off his helmet and tapped his forehead. The blonde arched one perfectly shaped brow. _He **wants** me to take a look? … Interesting. _A queer smile curled on the side of her face. _And why is a man as seemingly distrusting as Lehnsherr taking that kind of a risk in front of a telepath?_ _What is he so desperate about?_

      She recalled the first time she had peered into Lehnsherr’s mind only a few months ago, the night he had tried to – and failed to – kill Shaw. It was an interesting first impression to be sure. Yes, he was powerful; he destroyed the entire boat with its own damn anchor. But he was also young and stupid and blind – almost managed to drown himself before that other telepath jumped in there with him. But from what Frost had learned from the moment she spent in his thoughts, she knew he was just a young man filled with rage and revenge, bound to only one purpose. And a sad little boy who missed his mother was no real threat.

 

      After taking a moment to decide that there was no risk for herself in taking a peek, she squinted her eyes and peered into his defenseless crown.

     The moment her icy focus brushed against his mind, it retracted. Emma recoiled back with a jolt, swallowing in as much air as her lungs were able. Her well-manicured nails found themselves scraping at her scalp, distressing her previously perfect locks, the tresses fraying out of place in a frizzy mess.

 _“What wa-… Guilt?”_ she tested on her tongue, not able to find a better word for it, but knowing that that word wasn’t enough to describe the – well, Erik said it best – pain.

“Get it _out._ **Kill it** _.”_ He demanded sternly, his voice edging on toxic.

“I- I can’t.”

      His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“No one is powerful enough to do something like that. I can’t change _emotion._ I’m a _telepath_. I’ve never even heard of someone being able to something like that.”

      The brunette – bearing the same steely air, helmet or no – stared down at her, seemingly unconvinced. She irately clenched her teeth and continued

“I can alter memories or alter perceptions _as_ someone is viewing something but not-- I can’t ‘ _kill_ it’. I could try to alter whatever memories are causing this… reaction, but I have no idea how much that would change you. And there’s no way of knowing if that would even take care of your…problem… But most importantly, I don’t even know what _that_ was _._ I don’t think I could find whatever memory birthed that _thing_. I could barely _breathe,_ let alone navigate in there.”

      She regained some of her composure, straightened her shoulders, and brought her gaze eye to eye with him by sheer force of spite, unable to further tolerate the way Erik was looking down at her. It reminded her vaguely of how one looks upon a dead rat.

“I’m not GOD! What the _hell_ do you think telepathy is Lehnsherr?”

“… Hell” he replied, his eyes distant.

      Whatever this freak was thinking about – she didn’t want to know. She was not going anywhere _near_ that head again. There were so many voices. There was no air. There was no light. Erik Lehnsherr was more a black hole than a man.

 

      Erik put his helmet back on, eyes cold.

“Then what use are you to me?” he asked colorlessly.

      She froze – instincts taking over as she turned to diamond.

      But she realized her mistake as soon as she saw Lehnsherr’s eyes drag down to the crack in her neck. The same one he had made when they met in Russia. What had he said before? “Just give her a tap”? It was too late. She braced herself for the end.

 

“LOCATION!” A young voice cried, breaking the silence.

“Magneto! We need a telepath to locate other mutants, other recruits. We need her!”

      Frost opened her eyes, not even realizing she’d closed them in the first place. The dark haired girl she’d noticed before had taken a step into the doorway, panicked eyes distinct on her young face.

“I know.” the metal bender said coolly, his face bordering on boredom. He began walking to the hall, leaving Frost frozen in shock.

“Fill her in on the way to the base” he added as he passed the others in the hall, his manner the personification of composure itself.

 

_How is he holding all that in? His mind is… it’s not even describable. How is that brain even functioning? How could he possibly be sane?_

"What is he?” The thought slipped past her lips.

      The others looked to the distraught blonde in the middle of the room. But they were all silent, unable to answer her question. Frost, unaware of her audience, was still caught in her own musings.

_He is no boy. He's a monster._

 

Additional Notes:

* * *

New art has been added!

All art can be found [here.](https://berserkwriting.tumblr.com/tagged/Do-You-Know-How-It-Feels%3F)


	10. But Even Steel Can Melt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end notes for translation of German words.

  

      He looks down at the carved banister, the swirling design deep and familiar to him. He lets his small fingers trail along the pattern as he begins to descend the creaky wooden stairs. Suddenly he's startled out of his musings as a door slams somewhere downstairs, the loud thud followed by rushed footsteps – a familiar clacking of heels. He sees Mother racing up the stairs franticly.

“Geh! Versteck dich Erik!” she pleads.

Father is grabbing her, holding her still as he tries to get a straight answer from Mother “Was ist los?”

“Herr Wulff! Er sagt, die Grüne Polizei kommt um die Ecke! Geh einfach! Geh auf den Dachboden!"

      Father turns to him, eyes wide, his pupils swallowing the light green that normally softens his face.

“Hör auf deine Mutter, Erik! Lauf!”

      He can barely recognize him like this, father looks so...

"JETZT ERIK!"

      Erik runs up the stairs and opens the hatch to the attic. He climbs up and clambers into the wardrobe, sliding open the false back of the large oak closet and stepping inside the hidden compartment. He waits to shut the doors completely until he can see his mother and father stepping into their hiding spot beneath the floorboards hidden by an old jute rug. He closes the wardrobe doors and slides the false back closed, settling in the small, dark space. He wraps his arms around his shins and rests his forehead on his knees.

      It’s dark. Everything is too loud. He’s scared. He’s alone. He knows Mother and Father are inside the room as well, but he can’t _see_ them. He can’t _hear_ them. He _feels_ alone.

      … But then… another boy is there with him – sitting next to him. He looks a bit younger than Erik, his frame smaller and thinner, with floppy brown hair and… piercing blue eyes. Somehow… Erik can see him clearly in the pitch black space of the wardrobe. _Is this real? Is he real?_ The boy grabs his hand and holds it tight. Erik looks down at their joined hands and squeezes the boy’s small, soft one firmly. _So he **is** real_. The boy waits there with Erik, a warm presence beside him to stifle the fear.

“It’s okay Erik.”

      It’s English.

      Erik doesn’t speak English.

      And yet he can understand the boy’s words. How does the boy know his name?

      He must know Erik. Though, Erik can’t place him.

      But it doesn’t matter because he is no longer _alone._

“Calm your mind Erik.” The boy pleads.

      He can’t though.

“It’s okay Erik, I can hear them breathing. They are fine.”

“…”

“Calm your mind and you’ll be able to hear them too.”

       Erik notices the fast breath clouting out of his lungs and realizes he’s hyperventilating. _When did it start?_ He focuses on the boy next to him, watches his breathing, the slow rising and falling of his chest. After a while, Erik slows his breath enough to match the boy’s cadence, their chests now rising and falling in sync.

      Now he can hear it. He can hear a light exhale coming from under the floorboards. Then another, and another. He can distinguish the sounds of his mother from his father, his mother’s breath coming out in shallow, quick succession, and his father’s coming out slow and steady through his nose. But he also listens to the boy’s breaths, coming out calm and clear and close, warm on Erik’s face in the small confines of the wardrobe. Erik listens to them, all three of them, each breath they take another sliver of hope for him to cling to.

“It will be over soon” the boy says.

      Everything is so quiet now, Erik can even hear the beat of the boy’s heart. He can feel the boy’s warm pulse beneath his thumb where their hands are still held tight together.

      He hears a scream from outside the house, somewhere down the street. It sounds like his neighbor Anne – but if he’s being honest, it could be anyone, any young girl being dragged away into the early morning mist. He’s shaking.

      He can’t stop.

      He can’t stop shaking.

      The wooden soles of his shoes are rattling against the bottom of the wardrobe but he can’t stop shaking.  

      The boy leans over and drapes his arms around Erik’s shoulders, holding him tight. The boy smells like his father’s shoe polish and his mother’s apricot hamantaschen. Erik feels the tension in his spine release as he leans into it. He presses his face into the crook of the boy’s neck, breathing in that smell, drowning in it. He reaches around the boy’s chest and holds him tight, holding on for dear life. Because that is what this boy is. Life. The _hope_ for life.

       Erik continues to cling on, the hope he never expected to find locked in his arms. As time passes by, he begins drifting, his mind gliding away from this place, his vision whitening around the edges. As Erik feels his consciousness slipping, the boy pulls back and places his hands on each side of Erik’s face. Sharp blue eyes look straight into Erik’s. Erik can see how frail the boy looks now. He looks weak and tired and scared. No longer the soothing lull it once was, the boy’s voice sounds frightened and so… so young as he pleads with Erik.

“You have to come back Erik. I _need_ you to come back. You have to save her! You have to get her away from me **. _Please_** Erik.”

_What is he talking about? Who is he talking about?_

**_“Erik!”_ **

***

      Erik woke with a start. He scanned the room quickly to take in his surroundings, slowly realizing where he was. Still at the base. Still in the same room he had fallen asleep in last night – a bottle of scotch on the nightstand and his helmet resting askew at the foot of the bed.

      He placed his fingers to his temple, wincing at the dull ache that the cheap scotch no doubt bought him as his groggy mind pieced together his dream.

 

“… Charles.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Geh! Versteck dich Erik!” = “Go! Hide Erik!” 
> 
> “Was ist los?” = “What’s going on?” 
> 
> “Herr Wulff! Er sagt, die Grüne Polizei kommt um die Ecke! Geh einfach! Geh auf den Dachboden!" = “Mr. Wulff! He says the Grüne Polizei are coming around the corner! Just go! Get to the attic!”
> 
> “Hör auf deine Mutter, Erik! Lauf!” = “Listen to your mother, Erik! Run!”
> 
> "JETZT ERIK!" = "Now Erik!"


	11. Watching a Tower Burn

      Charles is broken. He barely eats, he’s afraid to sleep, and he’s alone. He sent Moira away to protect everyone, to build a home. He began trying to gather more mutants to expand the school but that didn’t last very long. He lost the will to keep it up. The dream ended before the first person even made it through our doors. We had to send letters of apology to several employees and angry parents – everyone we invited.

      A week later there was an incident with Sean. Everyone was woken in the middle of the night. All the windows and glass on the third floor was shattered. We found Sean laying in his bed. Apparently, it was “just a nightmare” but we all knew what it really was. When the rest of us left the room, Charles stayed behind with Sean. I remember walking down the hallway with Hank and Alex as we headed back toward our rooms, I could hear Charles’s voice – muffled as it was through the door, his words… his _voice_ resonated more to me than anything I had ever heard Charles say.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry Sean. I didn’t mean to - … There are no words… but I can’t- I can’t take it away. I can’t make you forget. I don’t’ trust myself with that kind of control right now… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

      In all my life, I had never heard Charles sound so… broken.

      It’s so quiet in this house now. Charles sent everyone away, told them he didn’t want to have to take care of them. I phone them often. They’re doing fine. They’re worried though.  Charles says he doesn’t want me around either. He keeps telling me to go be with Erik, that I really want to be with _him,_ but I know what Charles is doing. He’s trying to protect us. He’s trying to prioritize _my_ safety. He thinks I would be safer with a group of terrorist mutants than with him… and he’s probably right. Hank, Alex, and Sean are much safer now that they are gone. He knows it and I know it.

      He’s losing control. Especially when he sleeps. Sometimes in my dreams, he appears as a child, shuddering in the corner. I don’t know what else he sees when he’s asleep but whatever it is, he’s so afraid to face it that he stays awake for days at a time. Whenever he does fall unconscious, though, he _leaks._ He’s been seeping out projections. They’re usually just flashes of images or sensations of thought… but they’re… unsettling. The worst part though, is that his lack of control doesn’t seem to be confined behind the walls of the estate.

      Although Charles hasn’t left the house in months, his mind has. The press has picked up on a strange series of suspicious reports being filed to the police – quite a few people had gone straight to the papers with their statements after being dismissed by the authorities. Many report seeing a small boy with blue eyes in their dreams. It took a while for some lucky reporter to pay attention to a bunch of crazy dream accounts and notice a pattern, but now that the press has gotten their hands on the story, the public has been in an uproar. Nobody knows what these visions mean or how they are even possible, but the fact that folks are seeing similar apparitions, or even sharing dreams is scaring people. A few days ago an entire city block reported having the same dream of falling from a subway platform. Every day more and more people come out to share of their encounter with the boy. A few have even begun to gather together, talking about chosen people, being blessed by visions, and end times – it’s turning into some sort of a cult. But the bigger issue is: it’s happening all over the world.

      His range seems unlimited. Reports of the boy have been seen in every country, reaching minds aimlessly with no real pattern explaining the choice in targets. If that’s the case, his telepathy is either acting without direction, or it's moving subconsciously.

      He's wandering.

      I don’t know if he has some purpose or if he is looking for something… or someone.

      When I tried to ask Charles about it he was taken aback. He hadn’t even been aware he was doing it.

      That’s when he started taking the stimulants.

      His eyes are red and beneath them, black. There are red patches all over his skin. His nails started falling off last week. I decided to slip a sleep aid into his water the other day – knowing I’d be able to sneak it under his nose, as he doesn’t allow himself in my head anymore. But when he had woken up the next day in a panic and realized what I had done, his screaming fit lasted only a few seconds before I lost consciousness. Inside that darkness, I could hear a small voice repeating the same words over and over

_‘Monster!_

_You did it again!_

_Monster!_

_Look what you’ve done to her!_

_MONSTER!’_

      I never felt fear like that in my entire life. When I woke up he was on the floor, holding me, muttering something under his breath, his chair askew on its side a few feet from us, its wheel spinning with a dull squeak. My first instinct was to run but after a moment I realized that what I had heard – what I had _felt –_ wasn’t my own fear, it was Charles’s. There was no way I could leave him alone with that.

      The next day, he told me to leave. Again.

      I didn’t.

      He’s begun throwing things at me. He keeps telling me to go but I can’t. I can’t leave him alone like this. And yet, even with me here, he’s still falling apart. I don’t know how much longer he’s going to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is long and stuff finally starts happening (in case you were getting tired of the slow burn).   
> The short chapters were necessary for the pacing, but I do not intend for the entire story to remain in that format.  
> Thank you for the support, and especially for sticking with me this long ｍ（．＿．）ｍ


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